Charity Sunday for Democracy – #VotingRights #Elections #CharitySunday

In a bit more than a week, Americans will go to the polls for midterm elections of senators, representatives and governors. I don’t want to wade into the muck of politics on my romance and erotica blog, but I do want to remind every one that ultimately democracy depends on you. If you’re fortunate enough to live in a country where you have a vote, then use it to help shape the future.

With this in mind, on this Charity Sunday I am supporting the League of Women Voters (LWV). Founded more than one hundred years ago, LWV is “a nonpartisan, grassroots organization working to protect and expand voting rights and ensure everyone is represented in our democracy. We empower voters and defend democracy through advocacy, education, and litigation, at the local, state, and national levels.”

LWV works to educate and inform the voting public, and to fight attempts to limit the rights of voters. Voting is about making your own decisions; LWV tries to make sure everyone can do exactly that.

For every comment I receive on this Charity Sunday post, I’ll donate two dollars to LWV, to support this mission.

As far as my excerpt goes, I only have one book that has anything to do with politics, my erotic thriller Exposure. Here’s a bit from that novel.

Blurb

Sex, blood and betrayal: it's all in a day's work.

Stella is just minding her own business and having a bit of fun, working as an exotic dancer at the Peacock Lounge. Through no fault of her own, she witnesses a double murder and gets pulled into a shady dance of deceit with political bigwigs, mob bosses, dirty cops and scheming widows. Now she's everyone's target; her only chance is to sift through the lies and expose the truth.

Excerpt

It’s past ten in the morning when I wake, stiff and for some reason groggy. The sun seems weak, half-hearted. It takes me a minute to remember what day it is. Then it hits me. Monday. The day of my debut as Francesca’s assistant.

I shower and dress, choosing my most conservative outfit for the afternoon’s ordeal. Even in a charcoal pin-striped suit, I don’t look exactly business-like. The skirt comes to mid-knee, the crisp white blouse buttons high on my throat, but my long, shapely legs and ample breasts are hard to hide. I put up my hair, twisting it into a complex knot at the back of my head, and apply only minimal makeup. I gaze at myself in the mirror and shrug. Sex appeal is hard to disguise, but after all, this was Francesca’s choice. Sorry, sweetheart, but what you see is what you get.

The doorbell rings. I slip into low-heeled pumps (it won’t do for me to appear taller than Madame Mayor-to-be), grab my purse, and limp downstairs.

Francesca, as I expected, is wearing black. The cut of her suit is so stylish, though, it hardly looks like mourning. I see approval in her eyes as she looks me over, but she has the good taste not to say anything.

She takes me to the restaurant at the William Penn Hotel, just around the corner from City Hall. The waiters seem as highly starched as the white linen table cloths. The silver fork is heavy and awkward in my hand as I nibble at the salade niçoise that Francesca recommended. The recessed lighting and the low murmur of the businessmen conversing at the tables around us are oddly soothing. I listen more than I talk.

“This is a city of working people, Stella. They’re the people Tony wanted to represent, and I feel the same way. You might find it difficult to believe, but both Tony and I have working-class roots. Tony’s grandfather came over from Italy to work in the steel mills. Mine ran a grocery in Bloomfield, half a mile from where Tony’s buried. We were fortunate to have industrious, ambitious parents who knew the value of education. I remember my mother brushing my hair, telling me again and again that I needed to go to college or I’d never have any opportunities.

“After Vassar, I was a freelance journalist for awhile. I was always fascinated by politics, though. When I met Tony ten years ago he already was planning to run for Mayor. He asked me to help him. As he built his businesses, cultivated his contacts, served on the City Council, ran the Chamber of Commerce, made deals, friends and enemies, I was always there behind the scenes. Planning, organizing, smoothing the rough spots. Giving him whatever support he needed.”

There’s a strange, somber expression on her heart-shaped face, grief tinged with bitterness.

“I’m sure that he was grateful for your help.” I sense that I need to say something.

“Of course he was. He told me so, often. And he made sure that I had everything that I wanted. Within the limits of his character.” Another awkward pause. Her fork is raised, halfway to her mouth, a lettuce leaf trembling in its tines. Is she going to cry, here in public?

“And now he’s gone. But I won’t let our dream die with him. That’s why I need you, Stella. I need you to help me the way I helped him. To be my voice, my eyes, and my ears. To do whatever needs to be done.”

This sounds ominous to me. Her story has its inspiring aspects, but I still don’t trust her.

Her face softens as she looks at me. She seems almost girlish, and surprisingly needy. I have an almost overwhelming urge to reach out and stroke her cheek. I try to ignore it, along with the melting sensation between my thighs. This is business.

I try to read her, the way I read the customers at the Peacock. Of course I can’t give her the stare, but I gaze into her eyes with what I hope is a sympathetic expression.

“I’ll do what I can, Francesca. Just let me know what you need.”

She feels the question in my eyes, and makes her face into a mask. I’m suddenly reminded of Mr. Clean.

“I need to be mayor. That’s the last dream left to me, and I’ll fight like the devil to fulfill it.”

If this sounds interesting, you’ll find ebook and audiobook buy links, plus another excerpt, at https://www.lisabetsarai.com/exposurebook.html

Don’t forget to leave a comment and support the right to vote. And I hope you’ll visit the other bloggers participating in today’s blog hop.

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